Daughters of Teutobod

By Kurt Hansen

Daughters of Teutobod is a story of love triumphing over hate, of persistence in the face of domination, and of the strength of women in the face of adversity.
Gudrun is the stolen wife of Teutobod, the leader of the Teutons in Gaul in 102 BCE. Her story culminates in a historic battle with the Roman army.
Susanna is a German American farm wife in Pennsylvania whose husband, Karl, has strong affinity for the Nazi party in Germany. Susanna's story revolves around raising her three daughters and one son as World War II unfolds.
Finally, Gretel is the infant child of Susanna, now seventy-nine years old and a professor of women's studies, a US senator and Nobel laureate for her World Women's Initiative. She is heading to France to represent the United States at the seventy-fifth anniversary of the liberation of southern France, at the commemoration site where her older brother, who was killed in action nearby, is buried. The site is very near the location where the Romans defeated the Teutons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781666749878

Kurt Hansen

Kurt Hansen is from Racine, Wisconsin, and has lived in Kansas, Texas, and Iowa. He has experience in mental health and family systems as well as in parish ministry and administration. He holds degrees in psychology, social work, and divinity. Kurt now lives in Dubuque, Iowa with his wife of forty-four years, Dr. Susan Hansen, a professor emerita of international business. Kurt is the author of Gathered (2019). Daughters of Teutobod is his second novel.

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Daughters

of

Teutobod

Kurt Hansen

daughters of teutobod

Copyright ©

2022

Kurt Hansen. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers,

199

W.

8

th Ave., Suite

3

, Eugene, OR

97401

.

Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199

W.

8

th Ave., Suite

3

Eugene, OR

97401

www.wipfandstock.com

paperback isbn: 978-1-6667-4985-4

hardcover isbn: 978-1-6667-4986-1

ebook isbn: 978-1-6667-4987-8

September 6, 2022 12:15 PM

Table of Contents

Title Page

Preface

Prologue

Section I: Gudrun’s Story

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Section II: Susanna’s Story

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Section III: Gretel’s Story

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Dedicated to all the women who persisted.

Preface

The impetus for this book stems from two observations and a resultant question. The first observation is that throughout my working life, the best managers I have worked with or for have nearly always been women. Whether in the field of mental health, the business world, education, or ministry, I have continually found myself appreciative of the leadership style and capabilities of the women I have encountered. This is not to say every woman I have known is a great manager. Nor is it to dismiss the excellence of all the men I have worked with. But overall, the preponderance of those managers and leaders I have encountered for whom I have had the most respect were women.

The second observation derives from the knowledge of my own family system, specifically the distaff side. My maternal grandfather was a traditional German American, born on a farm in Wisconsin and raised in the traditional way. He grew up to be dogmatic, misogynistic, inflexible, authoritarian and at times, even abusive. Awareness of the struggles experienced by my mother throughout her life, her many accomplishments despite the emotional baggage she carried, and my later study of mental health and family systems theory form the background for the plot structure of this book.

The question which emerged from these observations is this: how did they do it? Women, once powerless, stolen by domineering, warlike men and used for their childbearing and labor value, somehow moved from being chattel to owning roles of mystics and seers and consultants. Women became the models for angels with major roles to play in the mythical stories of Valhalle. And they did this in a few generations. How did they do that?

Prologue

The Teutonic Peoples

The tribes which became known as the Teutonic peoples began their incursions into what is now Germany in the second century before the common era. They were hunters and fishermen, and they earned a reputation for being fierce warriors as they moved south from the Nordic states, plundering other tribes for treasure and slaves. Over the many years of their migration, they learned the skills of farming and gathering plants for consumption as they moved from place to place. Patriarchal and pagan, Teutonic cultural practices toward women were initially barbaric, although (with some exceptions) they practiced a strict monogamy. Endogamic marriage was rarely practiced, and only with a significant bride purchase. The far more common practice was to take women for marriage via raiding of other tribes they encountered.

Teutonic tribes bore a great many names, peoples who eventually combined to form several major nationalities including the Franks, the Saxons, the Alemanni, the Goths, the Slavs, and the Vandals, as well as a number of minor tribal leagues. As these various Germanic and Nordic peoples clashed first with one another, and then for six centuries with the styles, customs, language and religious beliefs of the Roman Empire (including those of the emerging Christian religion), the eventual amalgamation of blood and culture engendered the creation of Europe and its various nation states.

This book begins, however, with a focus on those earliest times of migration, resulting in an all-out battle with Rome carried out by two of the largest groups, the Cimbri and the Teutons. Though the entire hoard was defeated by the Roman general Marius (the Teutons in 102 B.C.E., followed by the annihilation of the Cimbri a year later), the absolute devotion of these peoples – and especially of their women – so impressed the Romans that their heroism and fierce resistance to subjugation was recorded in detail by some of the earliest Roman historians, Tacitus and Julius Caesar, as well as by Plutarch, Valerius Maximus and others. The historians even coined a phrase to describe the character of these peoples in battle: furor Teutonicus, or the Teutonic Fury, as a testimony to what the Roman generals had observed.

The events recounted in the culmination of Gudrun’s story are based on these early historical records and can be presumed to have happened much as described, although some license has been necessarily taken regarding their presentation.

Kurt Hansen

Section I

Gudrun’s Story

c. 104-102 B.C.E.

Chapter One

The smoke of the grist fires rose incessantly, grey black against the cloudy blue sky as the day meandered toward its middle hours. It was the season of harvest, and those konas who were able were out among the plantings, gleaning grain or digging turnips, carrots, or beets out of the black, loamy soil. Some ground grain into flour and some baked bread, while others tended the fires and the fleshpots. Still others were about the business of tanning hides, mostly of deer, raccoons, rabbits, or fox, occasionally from a bear. The smells of death intermingled with the breathing life and beating heart of the sveit.

Gudrun liked this time of day best. She grabbed another handful of golden wheatstalks, slicing off the grain heads with a strong whisking motion and dropping the grain into her tightly woven flaxen gathering bag. She paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. The sun was bright today, making the air steamy. Gudrun looked out across the hills, down the valley, past the wooded glades where she could see dozens of other kǫngulls like her own, and she knew there were even more beyond the reach of her eyes. Most of the kǫngulls contained about 100 persons, but some had more. As she fixed her gaze closer, to the kǫngull where she lived, she could see the jungen, chasing one another, some wielding sticks or branches, others seeking to escape the assaults of their aggressors. The jungmädchen were variously helping their mothers with cooking or cleaning vegetables or sewing hides; the kinder simply hid in corners or clung to their mothers’ legs.

Several hours passed, and now the sun was receding, thankfully, because its blazing, yellow glare kept breaking through the billowing clouds all day, intensifying the laborers’ fatigue. Gudrun emptied her grain bag into the large, woven basket at the edge of the planting. The basket was filled to the brim, and as she plunged both hands into the basket, letting the harvested grain sift between her fingers, a smile of satisfaction softened her face. Filling up her basket all the way to the top was for her, a measure of the goodness of the day. She hoisted the heavy basket, glad for the leather strap she had fashioned to carry it. Before she designed the strap, two women were needed to carry the woven baskets—one on either side—especially when full. But Gudrun decided to cut a long strip from the edge of a tanned deer hide and, with a sharp bone needle she affixed the strap to her basket, allowing her to shoulder the entire weight by herself.

When she first showed her invention, one of the men—Torolf—chastised her for taking the piece of deer hide. He pushed her to the ground and threatened worse, but Teutobod intervened, bashing Torolf on the head with his club and sending him reeling. Teutobod, Gudrun’s mann, was the undisputed leader of their sveit, and he had been their leader long before he took her for his wife, ever since the sveit’s earliest days in Jutland. He ordered that all the grain baskets be fashioned with straps for carrying, and Gudrun won the admiration of all the konas (and even some men). Torolf avoided her from then on.

As evening approached, it was time to prepare for the return of the männer. Most hunting excursions were a one-day affair, bringing in meat for perhaps a few days at best. But as the harvest season proceeded, the männer would leave for days at a time, seeking to increase supplies for the long winter to come. This foray had lasted nearly a week, but Gudrun was told by Teutobod to expect their return before seven suns had passed, and she shared this information with the some of the other konas. By now all the kongulls were preparing for the männer coming home.

As the sun began to set, the konas started pulling out skins from their bærs, unfolding them and laying them on the ground about the fire pits. The flesh pots were stirred and stoked, and a hearty stew was prepared with deer meats, mushrooms, yellow beans, potatoes, turnips and carrots, seasoned with salt and fennel and black peppercorns. Flasks of beer that had been cooling in the stream all day were brought to each firepit and hung on a stake which had been plunged in the ground for that purpose. Various dinner ware made from carved bone or fashioned out of wood or clay were laid out. All was in readiness.

An aura of anticipation and anxiety tumbled around the kǫngull, shortening tempers as the waiting lengthened. Finally, about an hour after the sun had fully set, the sound of the ram’s horn distantly blasted out its announcement: Die männer komme! The jungen were hustled away to the kinderbærs. One never knew the mood that might accompany the hunters when they returned, and things could and often did get ugly. The konas sat or knelt respectfully beside the firepits, twitching, nervously swatting insects away from the food, inhaling excitement and breathing out fear. Soon the rustling of leaves and the snap of twigs underfoot grew louder and closer until the shadows brought forth the whole troop of men, bustling in to the kǫngull, carrying or dragging the meat they had procured, pounding their chests, howling, pulling on their scraggly hair or beards, banging the ground with clubs or spears and smelling of the hunt and of the forest. Similar sounds of triumph and dominion could be heard resonating throughout all the kǫngulls below as the männer clamored in across the entire sveit.

Here in Gudrun’s kǫngull, the konas kept their gaze to the ground, their eyes fixed on the fire, and as the hunters’ swagger slowly abated, one by one the konas silently lifted their plates above their heads, each looking up to her mann as they all found their respective places. Once the providers were all reclining on skins beside the firepits, the konas stood and began to prepare plates of food for them. The men ate loudly, hungrily, slurping the stew from the lips of the bowls and using hunks of bread to grasp chunks of meat and vegetables.

The food having been consumed, skinflasks of beer soon followed, and before long the sated belches and grunts of the eaters gave way to boisterous banter, the proud providers reliving the thrill of killing a stag or the bravery of facing a bear. The konas scraped up the leftovers to take to the huts for themselves and the children, after which the cleanup tasks commenced. The women worked in groups of three or four, tending two large boiling pots to soak the dinnerware until all remnants of the food floated up to the top and were skimmed off. A little more soaking, then all the dinnerware was stacked and stored for the next use. Gudrun, along with two other konas, took the job of drying the cleaned dishes, swinging a dish in each hand to move the air. They playfully swung the wet plates or cups at one another, spritzing each other in the process and giggling like little meyas.

This being the end of a prolonged hunting venture, the children were tucked in early in the kinderhäusen, and the konas prepared to receive their husbands. For those unlucky enough to have brutish men, their wifely duties were not at all pleasant. Others were more fortunate. Gudrun was happy to be among the latter, hoping only that the beer ran out before Teutobod’s love lust. She retreated to the bær she shared with her husband, glad for the privacy his role as leader provided. This entire kǫngull was comprised of the sveit’s leadership and their skuldaliðs, and as such it claimed luxuries not generally known throughout the sveit by underlings. The leaders camped furthest upstream, and therefore got the cleanest water for drinking, cooking, and bathing. The leaders claimed individual space for themselves and their vifs, while others down below had to share living space with two or three other skuldaliðs.

Gudrun removed her garments and lay nude on the soft deerskins in her bær to prepare herself for her husband. Covering herself with another skin, she began to move her hands over her thighs and abdomen, softly, back and forth, her rough-skinned fingertips adapting to their more delicate uses. She moved a hand upward, swirling around her breasts and throat, teasing each nipple at the edges, holding back from contacting the most delicate flesh.

Her stroking and probing continued, a bit more urgently as she felt her breath rise and grow more heated. The muscles in her abdomen began to pulse, and as her hands found the sensitive spot between her legs, she felt the moisture beginning to flow inside her. When she was young Gudrun had learned from the older konas how to help her husband in this way, to ease his entrance and hasten his joy. Along the way, over the years, she also learned to enjoy herself more in the process. As the instinctive rocking motion in her pelvis began, she eased her manipulations, not wanting to be prematurely excited. Breathlessly, she looked toward the bær’s entrance, hoping Teutobod would hurry.

Chapter Two

Gudrun was running. Her feet, wing-like, seemed barely to touch the forest floor as she ran away from the great scourge behind her. The strangers had come in the early morning hours when all was quiet and many of her clan were still sleeping comfortably in their thick, turf-covered huts. Gudrun was startled awake by a muffled cry which at first seemed surreal, perhaps part of a dream. But she woke and moved from her bed of straw and hides, feeling the musty coolness of the night mist on her bare feet as she peeked out the entryway into the dark haze.

She saw movement. She thought it was just one of her clan out relieving himself. But then more movement, and even more. Many dark figures were stealing through the little village, and suddenly it was clear: these were marauders! Gudrun turned quickly to her father Berndt’s bed to wake him. Vater! she whispered urgently, shaking his shoulder. Vater, waket!

Berndt woke with an irritated grunt, not used to his sleep being interrupted. Was ist’s? he snarled, his eyes not even fully focusing as he rousted up like a disturbed bear. At that very moment the entryway broke down, kicked in by three invaders. They rushed in, one carrying a torch and the other two armed with clubs and blades. One of them went quickly to the berth nearest the front and clubbed Gudrun’s father to death. Blood came spurting and splashing from his head and face, hitting the top and sides of the hut. Gudrun knew he was instantly dead, and her eyes widened with fear as she saw the invaders move to the next bed, that of her father’s first wife, Estrild. Gudrun screamed in fear and rage as they pulled Estrild out of her bed and stripped her, looking her up and down as if considering a purchase. The one holding the torch said, Drepa inn kerling. It was a language Gudrun didn’t know. But as the man closest to her slit her throat, the meaning of the words became terrifyingly clear.

They moved quickly to the next bed, grabbing Berndt’s second wife Amalia by her hair and lifting her nightclothes. Amalia was younger than Estrild and was with child. Apparently, her pregnancy made her valuable enough to keep, so they grabbed her along with Gudrun, tying the hands of each securely before moving them out to the center of the village.

As the raid continued, Gudrun heard babies crying and small children screaming in fear, and the terrifyingly sudden silence of their cries as they were systematically clubbed to death. She looked around, seeing nothing but young women like herself, each with hands tied, bound at the waist to another both front and behind, a human chain of misery. As the sun’s rays began to illuminate the horror, Gudrun could see piles of tools and weaponry, gathered up from among the huts. She could also see a smaller gathering of boys, none younger than about seven and none older than about twelve winters, similarly shackled and lashed together.

Gudrun was at the end of a line of about fifteen women. Her hands and wrists were slender, and she worked the leather straps against themselves until she was able to feel a bit of freedom. Back and forth, twisting and twisting, she worked the bindings, careful not to be too energetic. But finally, one of her small hands slipped free and she quickly untied the fetter from her waist. Slowly, quietly, step by agonizing step backward, Gudrun moved gingerly into the forest and dropped into the underbrush. She crept away on her belly for what seemed like forever until she felt safe enough to stand and run.

And run she did! Like the wind! She sweated out great drops of fear as she moved through the woods. She imagined that an elk could not have moved any faster. She ran until her lungs were near to bursting and her sides ached with a pulsing fury. When she finally stopped and bent over, her hands on her thighs, pulling in every bit of air she could, she dared to think that she might be safe. But no sooner had the thought entered her head than she heard the crackling of someone approaching. They followed me! They are coming! she cried to herself. Terrified, she took off again, running wildly, with the image of Estrild, naked and her neck spurting blood, driving her onward. But before long her legs melted beneath her, the muscles of her thighs and calves quivering and cramping. She dropped to the ground, her chest heaving. She closed her eyes, hoping her pursuers would not see her. But the crackling continued, closer and closer, and when she looked up, there was only one man. His strong shoulders loomed above her like the forest, and in his right hand was a battle club that seemed bigger than her whole body. As she considered her fate, she steeled herself to accept it. Her mien waxed defiant. She would not cower before him. She was completely exhausted, but she forced herself to her knees. She stared defiantly into the man’s eyes.

But the look which he returned was not that of an assassin or a marauding invader; rather, his eyes held a kindness, even admiration. She hated that kind look. She would have killed him where he stood if only she was able. He spoke some words which Gudrun did not understand, but when he bent down and scooped her up like so much kindling, it was with a tenderness that disarmed her a bit. Her anger rose again, and she began to struggle against him. But she could do nothing. At that moment, she realized she had done all she could, and she simply had no power to resist him further. She would come to know later that his name was Teutobod.

***

Gudrun softened in her bed, stirred by the dream and its vividness. That raid, and her subsequent initiation into Teutobod’s sveit had been twelve winters ago, so long ago that she could barely remember her life before. She remembered it best like this—in dreams and reverie, either at night or during quiet daytime musings. And despite the horrific way in which she and most of the other konas had entered the sveit, Gudrun had become accustomed to this life of wandering and work. She had grown to be esteemed by her husband, so much so that he chose no other. And since he was the clear leader, his example was being emulated by other leaders as monogamy began filtering its way through the entire sveit. Certainly, there were männer who had more than one vif, but less and less each year. And while Teutobod’s role as head of his hus was unassailable, Gudrun knew that he valued and appreciated her standing beside him. In that knowledge, Gudrun took some satisfaction.

She slipped quietly out of bed, trying not to disturb her husband prematurely. Her rough feet padded softly on the skin floor of the hus, her naked body shivering as it met the cold dampness of the early morning air. Quickly, Gudrun slipped on a cloth garment reserved for her morning cleansing routines, and moving toward the doorway, she picked up a piece of hard lye. She paused, looking back at Teutobod as he slept. His long, brown hair was surprisingly neatened, she thought, for someone just back from the hunt and still in bed. Even his thick beard looked trimmed and even. She looked at his shoulders, so broad and muscular that even now, even in the early hours of the day and after a night of passionate lovemaking, looking at him there brought a sudden stirring to her belly.

And then, just as suddenly and for a reason she could not understand, Gudrun felt a disturbing urge to kill Teutobod in his bed. She let the scene play out in her mind: She saw herself espying his broad axe, standing against the wall of the hus. She saw herself walk calmly over to that weapon, stepping not timidly but with intrepid silence. She felt her hands on the rough wood handle, hefting the weight of the blade end easily. She felt the air on her cheek as she swung the blade full force. She heard the crack of the impact like the butchering of a hog as it split his head nearly in two, and she felt the blood gushing forth, spurting its warm power onto her face and hands and feet. Just for a moment—a bit longer than was comfortable for her—Gudrun stood fixed in place, immersed in her husband’s blood in her mind, no longer shivering from cold but from the tension of her strange imaginings.

Regaining her senses, Gudrun looked again toward her husband’s bed, but lowered her gaze to avoid actually seeing him there. Slowly, she turned to take her leave of him, pulling back the thick skins covering the doorway to reveal the growing glow of morning. Happy for the light and the safety the early sunlight provided from her dark thoughts and fears, she headed out for a badly needed cleansing.

Chapter Three

Morning snuck into the k ǫ ngull like a soft-footed invader, its shafts of misty light meandering through the cracks and crannies of Teutobod’s hus and rousing him from his deep snoring. He saw that Gudrun was already awake, as expected. He knew that she and many of the other konas could be found standing in the river, washing off the sweat and smells of the prior day and night. Some of the men would be there as well, mostly those who had less tolerance for beer. It was common for männer and konas to share the river in the morning, though the groupings formed gender-specific circles that faced inward and kept a respectful distance one from the other.

Teutobod rose and headed down to the river to bathe. The aroma of beer brewing was pervasive. It was early, but the process of making beer was involved and took time. Those konas who brewed beer were called braufraus, maybe as a taunt originally, but the name stuck and became a title of some prestige over time. It was a highly valued and important position, a daily responsibility involving several steps. Their work began early, cooking the barley and soaking the bitter hops. After cooking down the grain, they mashed it into a paste, adding fresh water and hops and sealing the mixture in skin bags, which were then hung on bone hooks or wooden pegs on the walls of a brauhus. As the bags began to swell from the yeasts growing inside them, each was opened briefly to relieve the pressure. Occasionally, an old skin would give way under the expanding gasses, and the exploding Bang! could be heard everywhere, resulting in shrieks of startled laughter from the jungen. The yeasty, loamy smell of the brauhus wafting in the breeze was constant, like the rising smoke from the campfires. And like the demand for more beer from the men.

At the river, Teutobod found a group of his lieutenants and joined their circle. All the others feared and respected Teutobod, but he knew leadership was always subject to challenge. Teutobod trusted no one. That’s why his bone knife, razor sharp and stained with blood, was in its customary place, sheathed in a deerskin holster suspended from a sash around his midriff. Still, he knew from experience that while respect may be born out of fear, it is solidified in fair treatment. So, he took interest in the well-being of all the men of the sveit, and especially in the lives of those leaders and their skuldaliðs with whom he shared the close community of his kǫngull.

You all had good reunion with your vifs last night? Teutobod said with a lusty smile as he glanced around at the other men, temporarily interrupting their lathering and splashing. The nodding heads and smiling, bearded faces gave the answer. You deserve it! Teutobod said. It was a good hunt!

Torolf kept his gaze downward, saying nothing. "No success in your hus, Torolf?" Teutobod taunted him. Torolf was the one most likely to replace Teutobod as leader of the sveit, or at least to want